


FICLET:  Not

by Hippediva



Category: Finding Neverland, J M Barrie
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James' thoughts at a dance</p>
            </blockquote>





	FICLET:  Not

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
sore  
---|---  
**Current music:** | Oh mi bambino  
**Entry tags:** |  [fiction](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/tag/fiction)  
  
_**FICLET: Not**_  
FANDOM: Finding Neverland  
DISCLAIMER: I can never own Barrie, he belongs to the children of the world.  
PAIRING: James, Mary, Peter  
RATING: Gen

Summary: James' thoughts at a dance

"You're NOT my father!"

The waltz played, tinny and dissonant as he dutifully whirled around the floor, Mary straining away from him. He felt the eyes on them. He was making a spectacle of himself, just standing, much less dancing.

He hated these society functions and went only to please her, but her eyes never lit with anything he could understand anymore.

He took his champagne out onto the terrace and stood, in full fig, shivering.

"You're not my father."

He would never be anyone's father. He knew that now. It just wasn't possible to shed the manicured skin anymore. They had seperate rooms and he never ventured to hers. There was nothing there that made his blood fire and his eyes light. What she wanted smelled old; stale, trembling, rank with body and he shied from it, afraid and uncomprehending.

"You're not my father."

But, oh, how those words, uttered in innocence, cut to the core.

He looked out over the early autumn fog, silvering the edges of the city, and wished he were winging over the pond at Kensington, tossing dewdrops at fairy eyes.

"You are not my father."

He sat in the hansom, silent with Mary, sullen beside him. He opened the fresh-painted door of their house and bade her goodnight. She lifted her lip and sped up the stairs, her skirts billowing like sails over a nursery sea.

"You are not my father."

He poured himself a brandy, his forehead pressed to the mantle. The grate hissed as one tear dropped to evaporate into the ozone of his imagination.


End file.
